


Redeem

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles won't give up on Erik, even if he has to bend his own rules to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redeem

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken mutants from the comics and used them for my own whims here. Written for a prompt on First Class Kink on Live Journal.

At first it’s a light murmuring in his mind; just a few words, thoughts, whispers of feelings.

The few times he lifts (shaking) fingers to his temple, he gets the _shatter_ that he’s felt twice before from Emma Frost. He rolls his chair closer to the guts of Cerebro, trying again, wincing again when she blocks him.

After an hour or so of trying, Charles is sweating and trembling and he rips the helmet off his head, the pneumatic wires lifting it safely away from his anger. He knows better, he does. But it’s been so long, and he’s alone (yes, the children are there; he’s not really alone) but there’s nothing like what he’d felt with

The rain blows in and the mansion is drenched in hail and lightning, and he sits at the window and closes his eyes and thinks _he’s got to go out alone sometime._ And then he laughs at the image of himself sitting and staring at the rain, pitying and wondering how he can feel something he’d lost the moment they stepped foot on the beach.

*

Emma is insistent, but Erik is adamant. They are safe in the Hellfire Club (or what was once the Club) and he doesn’t take direction from her. She touches his chest as he removes the helmet; he picks up her fingers in his and his grip is strong and she steps away, jerking the digits from him. She’s not sure why he’s so unyielding about going outside, but he’s _Magneto_ and most of the time that’s all that matters. She gathers the others and they continue their assignments (recruiting; Erik learned nothing if not the importance of that from Charles) as he steps out into the darkness of the Las Vegas streets, black clothing and newsboy cap pulled low on his brow.

*

It’s been several weeks since Charles had attempted to connect with Erik – when he feels the other man, it’s almost as though his brain is playing a joke on him. He’s speaking with the newest member of their school (Scott Summers; shy, brilliant, promising) and in the middle of a sentence he

 _blinks_

and Scott asks him if he’s “…alright, Professor?”

The red glasses hide Scott’s eyes, and Xavier doesn’t know (or care really) if Scott senses anything is wrong when he stutters an answer and rolls from the room, heading to the bay where they keep Cerebro, carrying the tremulous link in his mind, not pushing or prodding. He doesn’t want Erik to shove him away (that he can’t deal with again). He’s got an idea; an idea he’s ashamed of, but he’s willing to try it.

He trembles with promise, and hates himself for the weakness he feels at this one failing. He will not give up on Erik, no matter if the other man is now his mortal (and moral) enemy. Charles knows everything about Erik, and he’s not just this shell that’s power and metal and pain.

The machine whirrs and Charles finds a human woman near Erik as he walks the streets of (ah, he should have known) Las Vegas alone, hands in his pockets, hat hiding his face.

*

The paper is something foreign in his hands; Erik doesn’t need to read the human news in order to keep up with what’s going on in the world. He has Emma for that, but there are days when he could cheerfully chain her to the bed and send loops of the headrest to settle about her neck as he'd done in Russia. He shakes his head; she’s powerful and worth her keep but she’s not _him_

“Sir?”

He looks up. A young woman with short dark hair and blue eyes is watching him. He draws to his full height; the flatscans can’t do anything to him, but he’d rather not have to do anything out in the open (yet) to one girl. Besides, his mission tonight is to wander and to take in the mood of the world for himself.

“Miss?”

“I like your cap.”

His right eyebrow quirks. He rolls up the newspaper in his hands and rests it on his hip. What kind of game is this?

“Thank you.”

She smiles at him, a friendly, normal human smile and a small laugh escapes her full lips. “Not everyone can pull that style off, but you can. It makes you look cheerful.”

Now his brows are rising together; is this woman drunk? And yet he finds his mood lifting; he smiles back at her. She’s lovely and simple and no one’s paid him a complement in he doesn’t remember how long (if ever). Strange how simple things can affect you. Or is it just him they can affect?

“Not the look I was going for,” he finds himself answering, as if he cares what any of them think. She laughs again. “Well, it works.”

She turns and walks away, his eyes following her, puzzled expression on his face, the paper in his hands forgotten, the feel of the human world drifting away (all the metal, so much power here) as he watches the simple sway of her hips. She stops and turns to face him again, the neon of the strip lighting her hair, turning it all shades of everything. “Goodnight.”

She disappears into the crowd; Erik (Magneto) gradually pulls back into himself, the feel of the conversation with a human echoing weirdly in his brain, the slight pleasure he’d gotten from the contact waning slowly, but as he narrows his eyes (what had she really wanted, really?) the warmth of the simple kindness stays with him, hiding in his chest, slowing the beat of his heart.

It’s been some time since anyone conversed with him just for the sake of conversing.

Around the corner the girl blinks and shakes her head; she stumbles against the curb, not realizing where she’s going for a moment. It’s as though someone had hijacked her mind or something. Weird. She continues on, light steps on pavement gradually taking her in the direction of wherever it was she was going before she’d stopped and … what was it she’d done?

*

The next time Charles feels Erik is in the dead of night; he jerks from sleep and is in the chair and at Cerebro before he can muster enough energy to try and tell himself _no this isn’t right_. He is busy running the school and he’s strong but yet he must do this, must try and if this is the only way, then he’ll do it. He’s not ready to give up on Erik yet, no matter the way the other man left, no matter Charles’ statement to the contrary _oh my friend, I’m sorry_. He won’t admit to the fact he might be doing this for himself, and not for the good of mutanthood. That’s not the case.

He misses Erik. That’s the real reason, even though he’d never say it out loud; never acknowledge it, never readily tell anyone that’s the thought behind these attempts. He won’t even think it himself. He’s trying to redeem the other man still, always.

The helmet goes on, and he finds another.

*

The street is bustling and busy yet Erik manages to keep the humans away from him; they don’t seem to want to come close enough to touch or to be brushed by him. The times he’s out in public are rare, especially without Emma with him. But some days he just needs to _walk_ away from the others; he’d lived his whole life alone, done things his way and without help until he’d met -

He sighs imperceptibly (allowing himself that sign of weakness is an anathema) and bites the inside of his cheek and wonders if the feelings he’d developed in the few odd weeks he’d spent in Westchester will ever pass. He doesn’t trust easily; why had he this time? Why had he let Charles enter his mind and dredge up things he’d buried with such skill?

And why does he walk the streets every now and then to think of it, if only to admit to weakness, to feeling, to indecision?

The lamppost he walks past bends its top toward him, the light going out, the humans around him not noticing until he passes, allowing the thing to break and fall to the ground, glass splintering as they shout and jump and still he walks, the only one ignoring it.

A boy is suddenly in step with him; Erik cants his eyes downward, flexing his fingers, wondering what this child is doing following him – he walks faster, allowing his long legs to carry him, but the boy is still there, even as a few policemen pass them, radios squawking about a broken post scaring people in the park.

“Mister,” the boy says. “Why are you angry?”

Erik stares forward and keeps walking. “Go away, boy.” How dare this human child. He squeezes fingers together, power flexing, the iron of the bench he’s passing squealing lightly. Another bulb in a lamp pops as they pass by it.

“You don’t have to be, you know. You can choose to be happy. You have friends, right?”

“You don’t want to be speaking to me.”

The rage has begun to rise, and Erik lets it, lets it fill his fingers and brain and body with its power. He won’t do anything with the amount of humans around – but he laughs. Since when has that mattered? The only time that had mattered was _then_ and Charles isn’t here to remind him of the choices he has – had.

“They love you, your friends. Don’t ever worry about that.”

Erik stops short, but the boy is gone, weaving his way through the crowd, his dark clothing making him nearly impossible to find. Night has fallen, and the moon is bright in the sky, and he can hear Emma calling for him, checking on him; not because she cares, but because that’s her job and he blinks and rubs the bridge of his nose, suddenly.

He knows what mind readers can do.

 _Where’s your telepath friend?_

 _Gone. Left a bit of a gap in my life, if I’m to be honest. I was rather hoping you would fill it._

He licks his lips and walks on, the feeling of Charles suddenly there, unwanted, as though the other man is breathing down his neck. _They love you, your friends._

He flicks a hand and the last four lamps shriek as they fly apart, pieces falling at his feet, his shoes crunching over them as the flatscans around him yell and scatter in fear. He walks and walks and leaves the park behind, leaves the thoughts behind and the weird encounter with the boy behind, leaves Charles behind and his _you’re so much more than pain and anger, my friend._

My friend.

He bites his tongue until it bleeds, the pain a welcome respite.

*

Charles yanks Cerebro off his head, gasping from the focus of controlling the boy. Children are so much stronger than adults, but this had been his only option. He raises his hands, shaking, rests his face in his palms, controlling his breathing, feeling the anguish that had rolled off Erik. Was he still so –

“Professor!”

He looks up and breathes in and out, once, twice. Activating the chair, he exits the room, answering the call of his students; they need him and they are his reason now. He would do well to remember that.

*

The party is in full swing; Erik had been completely against it, but Emma (and truth be told, Angel) had convinced him in the end the way to most people’s (mutants) hearts was through their egos – a private party in the old Hellfire Club, yes, but it is a means to an end. The thing that Erik is the very best at. In the end he’d relented, but he stays apart from the rest of them, watching from the corner, feeling out the people (mutants) Emma and the others have found for them to court. They swirl and drink and laugh and he watches, his tux immaculate, his corner quiet and private, his hands loosely folded on the table he sits at, single glass of champagne bubbling as he _watches_.

Alcohol and food flows freely, music dribbles through the club, and the party goers seem satisfied and ready to talk after several rounds of Dom have circulated. Erik catches Emma’s eye as she passes; she cocks her head _I’m sending one to you_ slipping into his mind, and he nods once.

A woman; red hair, long, plain black dress, deep blue eyes. Her face is smooth and young but something about her gaze…Erik’s not a telepath, but this one is troubled. He gestures for her to sit. Emma wouldn’t have bothered if she hadn’t thought something was important here, so he allows the girl to join him, wondering.

“Fancy,” she says, and he smiles at her tone. He likes her already. “Not my idea,” he answers. “My associates are easy to please, as are most people – and mutants.”

She sits up straight, and doesn’t smile. “What are you looking for, Mr. Lehnsherr?”

“I’m looking for allegiance,” he says, leaning forward, eyes on hers, direct. “I’m looking for brotherhood, and loyalty. I’m looking for absolute belief in my cause. What are you looking for, Miss…?”

“Grey,” she says. “I’m looking for hope.”

He blinks; not what he’d expected her to say. But then the music changes and he’s struck with something – she is intriguing. He wants to know more; again, he believes in Emma’s judgment after so many months, if cautiously. “May I?” he asks as he stands, putting out a hand (powerful, deadly, but merely hands) and she takes it.

They dance.

They don’t speak much; a few pleasantries, his eyes following hers. They’re very blue, and he can’t stop staring. Weakness, he knows, but he allows himself a bit of nostalgia, if only for a bit. She’s an excellent dancer as is he and they whirl beautifully together as the music swells and dips, her body fitting into his exactly, her red hair brushing his shoulder as they turn. He doesn’t feel the need to speak much; it’s as though they already know one another although he does not trust so quickly anymore. He can’t afford that luxury.

“Why do you think you’ll find hope here?”

She cocks her head as they move slowly, the waltz an old and lovely tune. “Because that’s what you seem to be, to me.”

He laughs. “I know you’re a telepath, Miss Grey. But you can’t just get into my head that fast. Aside from the fact I’d know if you were.” He dips her and her hair slides over her shoulder, almost reaching the floor. She’s smiling a bit as he brings her back up, the strangely inappropriate sadness despite the smile on her face overwhelming as he looks into her blue eyes – deeper than the ocean that he still visits from time to time, the waves and the salt and the impenetrable darkness a place he misses although he knows now is not the time to go there. Something had found him there, something he can’t have and he can’t bear to remember that part.

But this Jean Grey, she’s like that ocean, and he wonders where in the bloody hell she came from and why –

“I am a telepath, yes. But I can see a kindred soul, Mr. Lehnsherr, as easily as you could force me out of here. And yet you haven’t.” And he won’t, he knows that. “I think you have great promise. But you can do so much more with people you can trust at your side. People that you know have your best interests at heart. People that can help you find the way to being the better man.”

He stops dead on the floor, ears ringing, heart pounding, even as she stares at him with something akin to panic in her (blue) eyes. But then it’s gone and her face is smooth and young – almost too smooth.

Other dancers whirl around them; he keeps a tight grip on her waist as she stares at him. “What did you say?” His voice is icicles forming at the beginning of winter, frost, cold, snow. She smiles, and it’s genuine and unafraid and he’s confused and consumed by her scent and her eyes, the blue of them _so_ blue, and she is just Miss Grey and for a moment there –

“We can help each other learn, don’t you think? We can be your army, but we can also be your friends. Protecting each other, together. What better way to make an impact?”

She leans in and kisses his cheek suddenly, a soft, tiny peck, a light brush of hummingbird wings, hot, scalding, freezing cold.

“We want the same thing.”

His eyes go wide even as she slips out of his grasp, her hair swinging as she folds into the crowd, the chatter of several dozen mutants ringing in his ears. He gives her chase, but so many of them stop him, want to talk, want to schmooze their way into his inner circle he loses sight of her quickly.

 _Emma_ he thinks and she’s there. Grabbing her arm, he pulls her into an alcove where she can hear him and tightening his grip, he speaks into her ear.

“Who was that girl, and where did you find her?” He grinds the words out, broken glass, anger.

“Raven found her,” Emma tells him. “She was extremely adamant you speak to her. I’m not sure why. Let go of me, Erik.”

He narrows his eyes, but finally releases her arm. “You fool.”

He knows by the time he gets to the street the girl will be long gone, but he goes up the stairs anyway, the traffic blocked by guards he’s paid well. Nothing. He waves the security off, following the street to the corner, alone, his fancy clothing constraining. He’s used to costumes, used to playing a role, however, so he leaves it alone as he walks quickly toward the intersection. Tourists and noises and lights and he wonders, for a moment, how he could have been so stupid.

His eyes burn and his throat constricts and he closes his lids as he can feel the girl in his arms as they’d danced, her blue eyes so blue and so deep as she’d said _we want the same thing._

He opens his lips, his heart slamming, broken, bruised again, a scar ripped painfully open he’d not realized was so fresh.

“Oh, my friend,” he sighs into the thick desert air. “I’m sorry. We do not.”

*

Cerebro is hung up for the last time. He won’t use it again like this.

For once, the only time since his accident, Charles wishes he had the use of his legs, so he could run, away from the mansion and away from his thoughts and away from the ideas he thinks up so brilliantly. If he could run anywhere in the world – he’d thought the answer would be so easy. But now, he’s not so sure.

The lights in the room are off, save those that power the array, and he sits in his chair at the window, the ever present rain pulsing at the windows, the one conversation he’d had with Jean short and to the point. She is on the way home, full of questions, although she’d been willing to let Charles ride in her mind, wanting to do anything to help the man who helped her.  
He can’t feel Erik anymore, doesn’t want to, and doesn’t want to try. He won’t try.

He watches the rain, the glass fogging, his fingers touching the window, empty from lack of touching his temple. Empty from lack of touching the other man, from laughing with him, from drinking with him and from playing Chess and from being able to finally, finally see what he could possibly have had. What they both could have had.

 _We want the same thing._

He closes his eyes and waits for Jean to return home.


End file.
